The morning after the ambush felt heavy with the weight of survival. The sun climbed above the horizon, casting pale light over the forest that had borne witness to death and chaos. Birds cautiously resumed their songs, as if testing the air to see if it was safe again. For Roderyk and the crew, the world felt different. Every step forward seemed to echo with the bloodshed of the previous day.
Roderyk trudged at the back of the group, his gaze lingering on his hands. His palms were raw from gripping his sword too tightly and his knuckles bruised from blows. The stains of battle—dried blood, sweat, and dirt—clung to his skin and clothes. He could still feel the terror in his chest, a clawing, desperate need to survive that had left him shaken. He glanced at Sylva, whose arm was bandaged with strips of cloth, stained red where her wound bled through. His hesitation had nearly cost her life.
Dr. Lorian walked alongside Roderyk. He fumbled with his medical bag, his usual muttering absent as he focused on each step. The doctor's face, typically anxious and lined with worry, bore an expression of unusual determination. When the ambush hit, his hands had not trembled. They had worked swiftly, sealing wounds and saving lives. It was a side of him that clashed with his usual panicked demeanor.
"Rod," Lorian finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was a bit steadier than usual. "When we get to Ironreach, I need to properly tend to your wounds. That hand of yours… it'll fester if you keep ignoring it."
Roderyk nodded, lost in thought. He was still grappling with his fear—fear of battle, fear of death, fear of his own weakness. He was here to grow stronger, yet every step seemed to reveal more of how far he had to go.
As midday approached, the distant of Ironreach came into view. The city's stone walls were a patchwork of repairs, evidence of countless battles fought to keep whatever was inside safe and whatever was outside at bay. Guards patrolled along the parapets, their eyes scanning for any signs of trouble. As the group neared the gates, they could see the city beyond was a labyrinth of narrow streets, crooked buildings leaning into each other like conspirators whispering secrets.
Orin led the crew through the bustling gates. "Stay close," he instructed, his voice low but firm. "This isn't Redhaven. This city has its own rules, and not everyone's going to be friendly to strangers like us."
The streets of Ironreach were alive with movement. Merchants hawked their goods—spices from far-off lands, intricate jewelry, exotic fabrics. Street urchins darted between the crowd, their hands quick to pickpocket. Mercenaries and sellswords, eyes hardened by years of combat, leaned against walls or haggled with potential employers. The city thrummed with a tension that was almost tangible.
Roderyk's eyes wandered, taking in the diversity of people and sounds. The scent of roasting meats mixed with the salty sea air. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith's hammer rang out in a steady rhythm, almost drowning out the muttered prayers of a Nyxes priest preaching at a small shrine. As they continued deeper into the city, the streets narrowed, and the noise became a jumbled mess of arguments, laughter, and cries.
"Orin," Sylva muttered, her hand resting on her glaive. "We should find a place to lay low. Too many eyes on us already."
Orin nodded. "Hmm. Keep your weapons close. Let's head toward the market square. We can blend in better there."
As they approached the square, a commotion drew their attention. A group of armored figures—Nyxes Sentinels, the militant arm of the Nyxes Church—were in a heated dispute with a band of local mercenaries. The Sentinels wore dark leather armor, each marked with the crescent moon insignia of their order. Their eyes were stern, and their hands rested near their weapons.
"Outsiders have no say in the Church's business," one Sentinel growled, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.
A mercenary spat on the ground defiantly. "We've bled for these streets, moon-men. You don't get to claim them as your own."
The tension was palpable, like a taut string ready to snap. Orin signaled for the group to hold back. "Let's not get tangled in this mess," he whispered. "We need to find out who's in charge here and what the lay of the land is."
But before they could move on, a middle-aged man in more elaborate Sentinel armor stepped forward. His presence commanded attention. He bore the markings of a Commander, his armor lined with silver trim, and his face weathered by years of authority.
Commander Aelric eyed the mercenaries with a cold, calculating gaze.
"You there," Aelric said, his voice firm yet calm, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Step away. This is the Church's domain, and we will not tolerate disruptions of the peace."
One of the mercenaries, a tall man with a jagged scar across his face, sneered. "Your 'peace' only serves the Church, not the people. You want us to step away? Make us."
The mercenaries braced, hands moving to hilts and grips. But Aelric raised his hand, his expression unchanging. "I don't have time for this. Leave now, or the consequences will be on your heads."
Orin's eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation. He knew an outright brawl would draw unwanted attention and turn their arrival into a catastrophe. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, putting himself between the two groups.
"Easy now," Orin said, his tone firm but diplomatic. "No one here wants unnecessary bloodshed. We're new to Ironreach and just passing through. What's this dispute really about?"
Aelric's cold gaze shifted to Orin, studying him for a moment. "Outsiders? No business meddling in Church affairs."
"We're outsiders, aye," Orin replied evenly. "But that gives us the advantage of neutrality. Maybe there's a way we can all walk away from this without any heads rolling."
Aelric considered his words for a moment before speaking. "Fine. I've got no patience for this today. But know this—Nyxes sees all, and those who defy her will face her judgment."
The mercenaries grumbled but backed off, and Aelric signaled his men to lower their weapons. With the immediate tension diffused, Aelric's expression turned thoughtful. He motioned for Orin and the crew to follow him to a more secluded part of the square, away from prying eyes.
Once they were out of earshot, Aelric's demeanor changed subtly. His cold mask remained, but there was a flicker of something else—calculation, perhaps, or a test. "You seem to have a sense of justice, outsider," he said to Orin. "I can respect that. And maybe I could use it."
Orin raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"There is a trial," Aelric continued. "A test of skill, faith, and will. 'The Dance of Nocturnes'. It's a way to resolve disputes—prove your worth or be deemed unworthy. I'm inviting you to participate."
Roderyk felt his pulse quicken at the mention of a test. He glanced at his companions; Sylva's eyes were narrowed in suspicion, Keldan's brow was furrowed, and Volos remained unreadable as always.
"What's the catch?" Sylva asked cautiously.
Aelric's lips curled into a thin smile. "The catch is survival. Fail, and… well not much can be said about that. Succeed however, and you may find yourselves with connections in unexpected places."
Orin exchanged a glance with the crew. "We'll consider it. But if we agree, there's a price. We may be outsiders but we don't fight for free."
Aelric nodded, his expression unreadable. "Fair enough. Meet me tonight at the amphitheater outside the city walls if you decide to accept."
✧✧✧✧✧
As the day waned, the group settled into a modest inn at the edge of the city. The room was sparse but adequate, and the scent of woodsmoke mixed with the sea breeze through the cracked window. The crew gathered to discuss their next move, but as the conversation wore on, Nara drifted off to the side, her thoughts a world away.
The fire in the hearth flickered, casting long shadows that danced along the walls. She found herself drawn into the depths of the flames, her eyes losing focus as the warmth lulled her into a half-dream.
In the dream, there was a girl.
The girl was young, perhaps ten summers or eleven, running barefoot across a field of wildflowers. The sun was a vibrant, golden hue overhead, and the breeze was gentle, carrying the scent of grass and earth. She laughed as she ran, her dark hair trailing behind her like a shadow.
Beside her, an older figure—a young woman with a bow slung over her back. She was teaching the girl how to hold the bow, how to draw it back, and how to feel the tension and release.
"Your arrow must be an extension of your will," the woman said, her voice steady but warm. "Let it speak when words fail."
The girl watched, wide-eyed and attentive. She idolized the woman, who seemed so strong and fearless. She wanted to be like her—confident, skilled, unyielding. The woman was her world, her hero.
However,
Dark clouds began to gather overhead, blotting out the sun. The field of flowers turned brittle and gray, and the wind became a biting chill. The girl stood alone now, her eyes wide with fear as men in dark robes and armor appeared on the horizon. They were stern-faced, each carrying the weight of authority—priests of Nyxes.
They marched into her village, bringing with them the cold, oppressive air of judgment. The girl watched from a distance as the villagers gathered, their faces drawn and worried. The woman stood among them, defiant, her chin raised high.
"You claim to serve Nyxes, but you serve only your own power," the woman declared, her voice unwavering.
The priests' leader, a gaunt man with eyes like a void, pointed a bony finger at her. "You blaspheme against the Goddess. You dare speak out against her will."
The tension was thick. The girl's heart raced, her small hands trembling as she watched the scene unfold. She could tell, even in her young age, that something terrible was about to happen.
The priests seized the woman. The girl tried to scream, to shout for them to stop, but her voice caught in her throat, suffocated by the weight of fear. She could only watch, helpless, as they dragged the woman away.
The world grew darker still, and everything changed.
The girl was now standing in a desolate square, surrounded by faceless figures. She felt cold, numb, her eyes fixed on the ground. She knew what was happening but couldn't look up, couldn't face the reality. The whispers of the crowd were like a thousand spiders crawling up her spine.
"She defied the Church," one whispered.
"She must face the consequences," another murmured.
The girl clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there and watch. But she was rooted to the spot.
And then, it was over.
The woman was gone, taken away into the darkness, beyond the reach of the living.
Nara woke with a start, the morning sun filtering through the cracked window. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her heart pounding in her chest. The dream clung to her, heavy and cold. She blinked, shaking herself from the remnants of that haunting memory.
She glanced around the room. The others were beginning to stir, preparing for the day ahead. She knew that she couldn't keep running from this memory. If there was a chance to learn the truth—about her sister, she had to take it.
The day went by and the city of Ironreach slipped into the shadows of night, the crew then made their way to the amphitheater on the outskirts of the city. The path was narrow and winding, leading up into the rocky cliffs that overlooked the harbor below. The moon hung low in the sky, its crescent form casting a dim silver light across the stones.
The amphitheater itself was a natural formation—a circular depression between jagged rocks, with stone steps carved into the cliffs surrounding it. It had an ancient feel, as if it had borne witness to countless trials and rituals over the ages.
The crew took their places near the center, surrounded by onlookers—Sentinels, mercenaries, and townsfolk who had come to witness the Dance of Nocturnes. Commander Aelric stood at the top of the stone steps, his face illuminated by the torches. His expression was as cold as ever, but there was a gleam in his eye that hinted at something more—something deeper.
"Tonight," Aelric began, his voice carrying over the crowd, "we gather to witness the Dance of Nocturnes. A trial of strength, of skill, and of faith. Those who stand here tonight will face each other in combat, and only those worthy will leave."
The onlookers murmured, some eager, some anxious. Roderyk could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He'd trained for this—had learned to master his fear, to wield his sword with purpose. But this was different. The stakes were real, and he would be facing opponents who had just as much to prove.
Orin turned to his group, his expression serious. "Remember what we're here for. Fight smart, fight together. And don't let them see you hesitate."
Sylva nodded, gripping her spear tightly. "We've come this far. No turning back now."
Keldan cracked his knuckles, his massive greatsword resting on his shoulder. "Bring it on."
Dr. Lorian, despite his usual jittery demeanor, was uncharacteristically calm. "I've patched you all up enough times to know you can handle this. Just don't get too crazy, please."
Roderyk felt a mix of fear and determination settle in his gut. He knew he had a lot to prove—not just to his companions, but to himself. This was his moment to step up, to face the darkness within and without.
The moon climbed higher, casting an ethereal glow over the arena. The torches flickered, and the crowd grew silent in anticipation. Aelric's voice cut through the stillness once more.
"Let the Dance begin."
The first round began with Sylva facing off against a Sentinel Duelist.
Sylva squared off against her opponent, a Sentinel known for his swift and deceptive style. He moved like a wisp of smoke, his blade weaving intricate patterns through the air, each stroke a feint or a setup for a killing blow.
Sylva remained steady, her eyes focused, her body poised like a coiled spring. She held her spear with confidence, keeping her feet light and her stance wide. She knew that this fight would be one of patience, not raw aggression.
The Sentinel lunged forward, his sword a blur of silver. Sylva sidestepped, spinning her spear with a flick of her wrist to deflect his blade. She countered with a thrust aimed at his side, but the duelist twisted away, his movements fluid and graceful.
Their combat became a series of exchanges—a dance of steel and footwork. The Sentinel advanced with a quick succession of strikes: high, low, then a sudden slash aimed at Sylva's neck. She parried each blow with a deft twist of her spear, redirecting the force without losing her balance.
The crowd watched, mesmerized by the display of skill. Sylva's strategy was clear: keep her distance, control the tempo, and wait for the right moment to strike.
The duelist attempted to close the gap again, his movements more desperate now. Sylva saw her opportunity. She feinted with a low sweep, causing him to leap back, and then she followed up with a lightning-fast jab to his exposed thigh. The spear's tip sliced through the leather armor, drawing a gasp from the onlookers and a grunt of pain from the Sentinel.
Seizing the momentum, Sylva pressed her advantage. She spun her spear overhead, bringing it down with a powerful arc toward the duelist's shoulder. He barely managed to deflect the blow but stumbled, his footing unsteady. Sylva capitalized on his weakness, delivering a series of rapid strikes—each one pushing him further back until he had nowhere left to go.
With a final thrust, Sylva drove the butt of her spear into his chest, knocking him to the ground. The duel was over. The Sentinel lay panting, his pride wounded more than his body.
Over to the other half of the arena Volos and a Shadow Sentinel stood face to face.
The moon dipped behind a cloud, casting a shadow over the arena as Volos stepped forward to face his opponent—a Sentinel known for his stealth and ambush tactics. The arena seemed to darken as the combat began, the shadows growing deeper and more sinister.
Volos stood still, his eyes half-closed, his breathing calm and measured. He knew that in a battle against a shadow fighter, the first to make a noise or a mistake would lose. He shifted his weight subtly, his daggers held loosely but ready to strike.
The Sentinel melted into the darkness, his form almost vanishing from sight. The crowd held its breath, waiting for the inevitable clash.
A soft rustle to Volos's left—a distraction. He didn't take the bait. Instead, he focused on his breathing, listening, feeling. Then, like a ghost, the Sentinel emerged from behind, his blade aiming for Volos's spine.
But Volos was ready. He spun on his heel, parrying the strike with one dagger and countering with the other in a fluid, almost dance-like motion. The clash of steel rang out, followed by a rapid flurry of blows, each parry and thrust as precise as a surgeon's cut.
The Sentinel retreated back into the shadows, his breathing ragged. Volos pursued, moving with a predator's grace, his footsteps silent. He could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation of the next attack. His opponent was skilled, but Volos had trained for this—had lived in darkness long enough to understand its language.
The next exchange was swift and brutal. The Sentinel lunged, and Volos dodged, his body twisting with a fluidity that made him seem almost serpentine. He parried another strike, then lashed out with a backhanded slash that caught the Sentinel across the arm. Blood spattered the stones.
The Sentinel hissed in pain but didn't relent. He moved in again, faster, angrier. Volos saw the rage in his eyes and used it. He feinted to the right, then spun left, catching the Sentinel off guard. His dagger found its mark—a shallow cut across the ribs.
The fight continued, a deadly game of cat and mouse. But with each exchange, Volos wore his opponent down, until finally, with a swift, decisive thrust, he drove his blade into the Sentinel's side.
The Sentinel fell to his knees, gasping, clutching his wound. Volos stepped back, his face expressionless. The duel was won.
With the stage for Slyva's duel cleared Roderyk was up next against a Veteran Sentinel Swordsman.
Roderyk stepped forward, his sword held in a ready stance. Across from him stood the seasoned Sentinel swordsman, his armor scuffed from countless battles, his eyes cold and calculating.
The Sentinel wasted no time. He advanced with a series of quick, probing strikes, testing Roderyk's defenses. Roderyk blocked the first, deflected the second, and sidestepped the third, his movements fluid but cautious. His training had taught him to read his opponent, to see beyond the surface.
The Sentinel's attacks grew more aggressive, each blow harder and faster than the last. Roderyk matched him, parrying and dodging, his footwork light and agile. He knew he couldn't afford to play defense forever. He needed to turn the tide.
Roderyk feigned a high slash, then quickly rolled to the side, using his momentum to deliver a sweeping low cut. The Sentinel was caught off guard, forced to hop back to avoid the strike. Sensing an opening, Roderyk pressed the attack, moving in with a flurry of slashes and thrusts.
The clash of steel filled the air, each blow resonating with the force of their determination. Roderyk's movements were a blend of precision and unpredictability, his strikes coming from unexpected angles. He aimed to disorient the Sentinel, to keep him on the back foot.
But the Sentinel was no novice. He quickly adjusted, countering Roderyk's assault with a powerful overhead strike that Roderyk barely managed to block. The force of the blow rattled his arms, but he held firm, his eyes never leaving his opponent.
Roderyk's mind raced. He knew he needed to break the stalemate. He shifted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, and prepared for a counterattack. When the Sentinel swung again, Roderyk deflected the blow, pivoted on his heel, and brought his sword around in a tight arc.
The Sentinel, surprised by the maneuver, took a step back, but Roderyk didn't let up. He followed with a series of rapid thrusts, driving the Sentinel toward the edge of the arena. With each step, Roderyk's confidence grew, his fear melting away like ice in the sun.
The final exchange was a blur. The Sentinel tried to counter with a desperate thrust, but Roderyk sidestepped, using his free hand to strike the man's wrist. The Sentinel's sword clattered to the ground, and Roderyk, without missing a beat, brought his blade up to the man's throat.
The Sentinel froze, his breath ragged, and the crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps. Roderyk held his position, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on his opponent.
And then he lowered his sword.
The Sentinel nodded, a grudging respect in his gaze. The fight was over.
The last round was Keldan having to face againt Lunaris' Champion.
Keldan faced his opponent, the Champion, wielding a massive war hammer. The Champion was a mountain of a man, his muscles bulging beneath his armor, his eyes burning with intensity. Keldan, with his greatsword in hand, exuded calm confidence.
The Champion charged with a roar, swinging his hammer down with bone-crushing force. Keldan sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a powerful horizontal slash. The Champion blocked with his hammer's shaft, the impact sending a shockwave through the arena.
The clash was a contest of raw power versus refined technique. Keldan's greatsword was a blur as he parried the Champion's heavy strikes, his movements economical yet forceful. Every swing of the hammer sent tremors through the ground, but Keldan used his footwork to avoid the worst of it, staying light on his feet despite his size.
As the battle wore on, Keldan began to press his advantage. He feinted with a high slash, then twisted his grip and brought the blade down in a vertical cleave. The Champion barely managed to block, but the force of the blow sent him stumbling back.
Keldan didn't relent. He closed the distance, his greatsword moving in wide, powerful arcs. The Champion tried to counter, swinging his hammer in a desperate, sweeping motion, but Keldan ducked under the blow and delivered a devastating upward slash that tore through the Champion's armor and bit deep into his side.
Blood sprayed, and the Champion staggered, gasping for breath. Keldan raised his sword for the final blow, his muscles coiled with tension. The Champion, seeing his end, roared and charged one last time, but Keldan sidestepped, bringing his sword down in a clean, decisive strike.
The Champion fell, his hammer slipping from his grasp, and the crowd fell silent.
The Dance of Nocturnes had concluded, and the crowd murmured with excitement and disbelief. The crew stood victorious, their bodies battered but their spirits unbroken. Roderyk's mind raced with adrenaline and exhaustion, his thoughts a whirlwind of triumph and reflection.
As the crew caught their breath, Commander Aelric approached them, his face still shadowed by the torchlight. "You've proven yourselves tonight," he said, his tone even. "But there's more at stake here than just glory."
Orin's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"
Aelric glanced around, ensuring no one was listening. "This city is on the brink. The Nyxes Church holds sway, but there are those within who believe it has lost its way. I'm one of them."
Roderyk felt a chill run down his spine. Aelric's words were loaded, dangerous.
"I lead a faction," Aelric continued, "Though small and growing we aim to reclaim the true faith of Nyxes, to expose the corruption that festers within the Church's hierarchy. We need allies—fighters like you not bound by politics but understand the value of justice."
Orin crossed his arms. "You're asking us to join a rebellion?"
Aelric shook his head. "Not join. Assist. For a price. You help us, and we'll make sure you leave Ironreach with more than just coin."
Nara stepped forward, her voice steady but filled with a simmering intensity. "I'll help you."
"Huh…Nara?"
"I've got my reasons."
Orin shooting her a sidelong glance sighed.
"We'll help, but we're not signing on for a crusade. We're adventurers, not revolutionaries. We'll hear you out, but understand this: our loyalty is our own."
Aelric nodded. "That's all I ask. Let's meet tomorrow night, and I'll explain everything."
The group exchanged tense glances. Sensing the road ahead was only getting more complicated, but their path was set.